Bright Pink Knickers.

My eyes struggle to open.  Sleep is caked at the corners, preventing light getting through. A dullness seeps through me.

I hear the sound of a repetitive monotone bleep before my eyes adjust fully. They focus on a small TV screen about ten feet away.  The colour pink flashes behind my eyes as I close them once again.

The next time I wake my throat is on fire. My movements are stunted as I try to wriggle my fingers. They respond as the rest of my body remains motionless.

As I clack my dry mouth open, I feel movement beside me. My wife’s face comes into view. She is speaking to me frantically, but I am not quite hearing her. 

I can see her lips moving and I notice how beautiful she looks. Despite the puffy cheeks and dark circles. A thought pops into my head - why does she look knackered? I smile at the word and how funny it sounds in my head.

Water is brought to my lips. I sip through a straw, being very aware of how the plastic feels against my tongue. I don’t know if five seconds or five hours pass, but the next thing I know is that several people are in the room. The room is too bright for me as I drift off again.

As I wake once more, I am far more alert to my senses, yet still a bit ropey. There is no hazy or almost surreal feeling like before. But everything moves as if in slow motion. And the next thought that pops into my head - women’s knickers?

Things start clicking into place. I am far more in control of my body and voice, and am starting to feel the pain from my two splintered and shattered legs. I know that I am paralysed from the waist down – long before any man in a white coat confirms it. 

I have come to terms with it – my flying career is over. 

I will never be a commercial pilot again.

On the fourth day, I am up to seeing visitors and investigating officers. The doctors don’t want me to be over exerted. 

Flashes of moments in time start coming back to me.

It was the end of a long day. We were about nine hours into our duty. 

Hurry up and wait was the theme of the day. 

Pressures were being applied by ATC and our own company to maintain the schedule.

That's where the slow motion starts.

Tim got up to use the restroom from the left seat and I strapped in. 

Thank God I did.

Out of nowhere, we hit a large pocket of clear air turbulence.

Tim’s body hit the underside of the overhead control panel, flopping him down hard.

Blood oozes from his head. I can see a diamond shaped gash.

Haley has survived the initial pocket in the forward galley. I heard her hitting the floor. 

I contact Haley through the interphone and buzz her in.

She screams at seeing Tim’s limp body on the controls, after I have contacted ATC and appraised them of our situation.

I calm her down and advise her to strap into the third seat.

Then pocket number two catches us by surprise.

Tim is a heavy, dead weight missile in the cockpit - flapping left and right.

His right arm hits me square in the left temple.

No one is flying the plane. 

I am conscious but unresponsive.

ATC keeps hailing me.

Flashing lights, sirens and horns are lighting up the control panels like a Christmas tree in suburbia.

I notice how pretty they look.

I hear a loud, bone-chilling shriek behind me.

I turn my head to see blood spattered all over my left shoulder epaulet. The deep red colour contrasts starkly against my white shirt.

Perfect shaped circles of spattered blood.

The sweet smell of sweat fills my nostrils.

Then I see Haley with her blood stained uniform standing in the gap in front of the locked cockpit door.

My first thought is “what is she doing out of the third seat?”

She is freaking out. Her skirt has risen up, almost to her waist.

Exposing her bright pink - almost luminous, knickers.

A fabulous, yet distracting sight. 

I somehow know I shouldn’t be staring.

Another blood curdling shriek from her brings me out of my reverie.

Thirty two seconds later, I manage to regain some control of the aircraft.

We crash land into a field, just over two miles away from our final destination.

Only for Haley’s knickers – no one would have survived.